What’s In a Name

Andrew means “manly” I can live with that though I once had a yen to be Martin
Briefly

My family name is Wilson – Son of William – whoever he was in the mists of history
Unknown

My recently widowed Grandmother demanded I be commemoratively named Arthur
Unwise

Andrew Arthur doesn’t sing right so my rebel parents named me Andrew Frewin
Defied

Frewin – Anglo-Saxon “Frea-ing” – Friend of the Ruler!
No way…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Laura Bloomsbury in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft, invites us to write the poetry of names using a 
WaltMarie poetry style…

10 lines
Even lines are just 2 syllables
Odd lines are longer but without syllable restriction
The even lines make their own mini-poem if read separately
The meter and rhyme are unspecified

And the theme of your poem should be

The history/meaning of your name
or one you wish you had
or an imaginary one

I was born in the gatehouse of Frewin Hall, Oxford which is part of Brasenose College of which my father was then a don. In return for this subsidised college house, part of his duties was to lock the gates at 9pm each night as the students were curfewed in those days – imagine! My Grandfather on my Father’s side died during my Mother’s pregnancy with me and this poem tells the result of the conflict between my domineering Grandmother and my parents…
There is a Frewin family who presumably built Frewin Hall but as far as I know, I am the only person to have Frewin as a middle name, so if you have ever wondered about my “handle” Frewin55, now you know. (I was born 8th March 1955.)

The view through the gateway of Frein Hall – the cottage where I was born at home is on the left and you can find out more about it here

Stardust

In the beginning, there was just gas
hydrogen drifting in nebulous clouds
assuming fantastic shapes
within which gravity began to
group the atoms into clumps
flocculating into formless blobs
that swarm and meld together
until the weakest of fundamental forces
is magnified by unimaginable volumes
temperature rising with such pressure
that eventually combustion spontaneously
ignites the first generation of stars

A star is a balancing act
between the explosive force of the burn
versus the constant collapsing
pull of gravity but fire consumes
the star and gravity always wins
and the star is blown to bits
to dust in fact – stardust brings
new elements to the feast for
the greedy, next generation
growing in the nursery of new nebulae

The new stars have more complex
deaths with a series of alternating
explosions and collapses each
one concentrating and crushing
new elements into existence
before blasting them into ever
more varied stardust which will
one day make the flesh and bones
of a big-brained hominid
who will gaze back through
generations of galaxies let alone
stars – back towards where it all began…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub,  Melissa Lemay in Poetics invites us to write a poem on the subject – Metamorphosis of Sorts…